


Sansrya's Tale

by conduitassbutts



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Delphine is a bag of dicks, Dragons bruh, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Sexual Humor, Smartass Dragonborn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-04-18 02:17:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4688717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conduitassbutts/pseuds/conduitassbutts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young, smart-mouthed Nord woman from Whiterun Hold becoming the legendary Dragonborn? Surely not. But, as it happens, it's the truth. This is the story of Sansrya, and her journey of how she went from a witty smart-mouth to one of the most powerful beings in Tamriel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

As most tales start, the hero always finds themselves in a spot of trouble. Well, trouble being an understatement.  Our hero finds herself being awoken by the bumping and rocky movements of a carriage, her hands tied behind her back, and surrounded by those who are considered law breakers. And to top it off, she’s got a pounding headache from behind beaten by a soldier.

This is the story of Sansrya. A young woman with an unfortunate case of extreme bad luck.

* * *

 

 “Hey, girl. Wake up.”

The woman arose from her slumped over position to meet the eyes of the one who spoke. A Nord with blonde hair, garbed in the Stormcloak cuirass. He had a rough, husky voice, pretty characteristic for most Nords.

 “Nice to see you’ve finally woken up,” he said in a slightly relieved tone.

The woman thick eyebrows furrowed. “Where the hell am I?” she moaned. Her head was throbbing like she’d be hit with a giant’s club.

 “You were trying to cross the border weren’t you?” the Nord asked.

I nodded weakly. “Yes, I was. But, as you can see, it didn’t go exactly as I had hoped.”

He let out a humourless snort. “No shit. You walked right into that Imperial ambush.”

There was a scoff. The woman looked over and saw that there were two other prisoners. One, a man in a ragged tunic, and the other in more fine clothing, with his mouth gagged.

 “Damn Stormcloaks,” the ragged man growled bitterly. “You know, Skyrim was fine until you came along, everyone was nice and lazy, ‘specially the Empire.”

The blonde Nord let out an annoyed sigh. “Not this again…” Obviously this man had ranted on before she had woken up.

 “If it hadn’t been for you bastards, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell by now. Completely free from the Empire’s clutches!” Then his gaze turned to the woman. “You and me, we shouldn’t be here, you know – it’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants, not us.”

 “We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, _thief_ ,” the Nord said, sarcasm and disdain for the thief clear in his voice.

 “Oh will you _shut up_ back there already?” the soldier driving the carriage groaned.

The thief looked over to the gagged man. “So, what’s wrong with him, huh?”

The Nord ‘s gaze sharply turned to the thief. “Watch your tongue. That is Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King. Have some respect, thief.”

The thief did a double take at the gagged man. “Wait, _the_ Ulfric? Leader of the Stormcloaks? B-but if they captured you then…”

 “Then we’re probably being sent to our deaths,” the woman interjected, her strong Nordic but feminine voice a contrast to the men’s voices.

Finally, much to the carriage driver’s inner relief, there was a moment of silence.

Then the blonde Nord broke the silence. “So, where are you from, Horse-thief?”

The thief’s voice appeared to catch a little when he spoke. “I’m… Rorikstead. I’m from Rorikstead.”

 “And you?” He turned to the woman next. “Where are you from?”

The woman hesitated. “…Whiterun.”

The carriage was being led through a small town by the name of Helgen. The woman looked around at her surroundings, warily eyeing up the Imperial soldiers littered around the place and the presence of the Thalmor, Altmer agents of the Empire that basically had a say over everything and anything these days.

The woman payed no attention to the ramblings of the men. Finally the carriage came to a halt. The thief blubbered and demanded why we had stopped.

 “What do you think, idiot?” The Nord grunted, a hint of sadness creeping through. “It’s the end of the line for us.”

One by one, the prisoners of the Empire hopped off the carriage, lining up in front of two Imperial soldiers. One with a sort of clipboard and quill, the other heavily armoured, a captain.

 “Alright, here’s how this is going to go,” the captain barked, her voice loud and clear. “This man here,” she roughly reaches out and claps him on the back, the poor sod wincing from it, “is going to read out your names. Your name gets called out, line up with the rest of your pathetic brethren. Understood? Great, now hurry this the fuck up, Hadvar.”

The soldier, Hadvar, recomposed himself. Peering at the clipboard, he started to call out the names. “Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm.”

The Jarl walked forward to join the rest of his captured rebels, barely glancing at anyone.

 “Ralof of Riverwood,” Hadvar sighed.

The blonde Nord, Ralof, walked forward, head held high. As he walked past the soldier, they gave each other a hard glance. Like they were both disapproving of each other’s actions.

Shaking his head, Havdar called out the next name. “Lokir of Rorikstead.”

The horse-theif stepped forward. Then, just as he got in front of the soldiers, he burst into a sprint. “You bastards aren’t taking me in!”

 “Archers!” the captain commanded, pointing at the running theif. The nearby archers aimed their bows and fired at the thief. You could hear the squelching noise of each arrow finding it’s way into the thief. With a strangled cry as an arrow made it’s home in his throat, Lokir of Rorikstead fell.

The captain, now visibly annoyed, sharply turned her head to the last prisoner. “You, come forward. And don’t even think about trying to escape.”

The woman slowly approached the soldiers. She didn’t say a word; she only held her head high, an emotionless expression on her fair face.

 “Who are you, Prisoner?” Hadvar inquired.

 “Sansrya,” the woman murmured, loud enough for the soldier to hear.

He nodded, and glanced down at the clipboard. His eyebrows furrowed. “Captain, she’s not on the list.” He turned to his senior. “What should we do?”

The captain rolled her eyes. “Fuck the list, she can go to the block.”

Hadvar blinked, mouth open slightly. “I’m sorry Prisoner,” he muttered, turning back to her. “You’re heading for the block.”

Sansrya nodded, then advanced toward the crowd of prisoners awaiting their deaths. General Tulius was currently giving some big lecture/ speech to Ulfric. Meanwhile, a man’s head was currently rolling away from his twitching body at the chopping block.

 “…You started this war, throwing Skyrim into chaos in the process,” he growled. “And now you will pay for your crimes to the Empire with your life.”

A distant roar interrupted the speech. It sounded nothing like a bear, or a sabre cat, or even a giant. Sansrya frowned, a feeling of dead creeping up on her unexpectedly. No way could that be an animal.

 “See? I told you I could hear something earlier!” Hadvar interrupted.

 “Enough,” the General commanded, his grim, aging face set in a hard glare. “Carry on.”

The captain before called out the next name. “Next, the Nord bitch in the rags.”

Sansrya took a deep breath. _So, this is how it ends_ , she thought to herself bitterly. She made her way to the block, standing in front of it. Feeling a hand push her down onto her knees, she glared at the headsman on stand-by, his giant axe glinting with the blood of the fallen Stormcloak.

A priestess stepped forward. “As we commend your soul to Aetherius, blessing of the Eight Divines upon you. May you find peace and mercy as you leave this world.”

Once the priestess was done, she took a step back. A foot on her back pushed Sansrya forward, her head hitting the stone. Sansrya now faced a bloodied basket, her neck on the cool stone of the block. Turning her head, she closed her eyes and awaited the axe.

Thunder abruptly begun, and then a big black dragon landed on top of the tower above them, thus interrupting the execution.


	2. Seven Thousand Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansrya preps up for the trip to High Hrothgar. Has a heart to heart with a good friend and get's surprised by a family member showing up unexpectedly.

Days later, Sansrya sat with Faendal along the edge of the stream, her boots off and her feet in the water. She was given a place to stay by Hadvar uncle, Alvor, and his wife, after Hadvar had explained the ordeal they went through.

Alvor then requested that Sansrya go to Whiterun to tell Jarl Balgruuf, and ask for him to send guards to Riverwood. But when she got there, events got a bit more interesting.

 “So, let me get this straight,” Faendal began, taking out a piece of bread and biting some off. “You went to get Riverwood reinforcements, got roped into a fetch quest for the court wizard and Lucan, dropped off Lucan’s golden claw, came back with whatever the wizard needed, then a _dragon_ attacks the watchtower, you kill it and now you’re Dragonborn?”

Sansrya chuckled. “Aye, it’s quite a tale isn’t it?”

Faendal scoffed. “‘Quite’ doesn’t even begin to describe how crazy that sounds.”

She let out a huff. Gazing out to the river, she spoke softly. “And now I have to make a pilgrimage up the Seven Thousand Steps.”

 “Are you going alone?” Faendal asked.

Sansrya nodded. “I can’t think of anyone that would be willing to make the pilgrimage with me.”

Faendal gave her a look, eyes widening and mouth set in a thin line. “ _Hello?_ What about me?”

 “Faendal, you can’t come with me,” she laughed, placing a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “And besides,” she added, looking back over her shoulder towards the buildings. “I don’t think Camilla would appreciate it if I got you killed.”

Faendal continued to give her the look for a few more moments, then his face fell in defeat. “You’re right, you’re right. Just, at least be careful okay?”

Sansrya grinned. “Come now, _me?_ Dying? My dear friend, you underestimate my skill.”

The Bosmer rolled his eyes. “That bravado is gonna get you killed one day, you know?” he teased. His facial expression softened. “Do be careful though Sansrya.”

Her smirk softened into a gentle smile. “I will, Mara preserve you my friend.”

* * *

 

In the end, Sansrya had asked Lydia to join her. It was only fitting – after all, Lydia was her cousin, so who better to travel with than family?

At the age of three, Sansrya was brought to the hold of Whiterun by her mother. A wild Nord woman, according to people she asked. Her mother left her with her uncle and aunt, and their young daughter Lydia. All she had said was, “It’s not safe for her among my people, not anymore. Raise her well, Brother.” And with that, she left without a trace. No one knew of what fate had befallen her father.

The two Nord women walked along side each other as they crossed over the bridge to Ivarstead. It was Lydia who began the conversation between the two. “You know, when they asked me to be the Housecarl to who killed the dragon I definitely wasn’t expecting it to be my own cousin,” she confessed with a smirk on her face.

Sansrya laughed. “You’re not the only one who was surprised. I certainly wasn’t expecting you to be there – I thought you had left for Cyrodiil a few years ago?”

Lydia shrugged. “I did, but I only stayed there for a year before I became homesick.”

Ivarstead was a very small village. With only an inn and a mill to keep business going, they didn’t get many visitors, save for pilgrims wanting to climb the Seven Thousand Steps.

 “So, my _Thane_ ,” Lydia began in a teasing way, “what’s the plan?”

 “I say we head up there while we still have daylight,” Sansrya stated, gazing up at the sky.

Lydia nodded. The two warriors headed towards the bridge leading to the beginning of the Seven Thousand Steps. On the way they stopped by a man that needed some supplies taken up to High Hrothgar. And since she never passed up on an opportunity to make money, Sansrya happily offered to take the supplies.

The Seven Thousand Steps had certainly earned their reputation. It had to have been the longest hike the young Nord had ever done. “How about,” Sansrya began, panting in between talking. “We – never do – this - again?”

Lydia, also panting and tired, nodded weakly. “I agree. That fight with the frost troll pretty much drained me.”

Sansrya turned her head towards the secluded castle just a little further away. “Come on. Let’s go see what these old hermits want.”

* * *

 

Sansrya stood in front of an old, dusted mirror in one of the many rooms of High Hrothgar. She noted that her once shoulder length ebony coloured hair had grown out longer. Dust had settled in on her pale face faintly. The lightness in her greenish-blue eyes was still there. And then there was the scars on her face. Three long, jagged lines cutting across her left cheek, the bottom one stretching it was just to her jawline.

The scars were from the ambush. In the middle of the Stormcloaks being ambushed by the Legion, a sleepy, irritated sabre cat had emerged from its den to attack the ones that aroused it from its sleep. And unfortunately for Sansrya, she got in the way of one of its swipes.

Shaking her head, she walked away from the mirror, leaving to search for Lydia. She found her in the main hall, talking to Arngeir.

The Greybeards had taught her two new Words of Power. The second Word for the Unrelenting Force Shout she’d used in Whiterun, and the first Word for Whirlwind, which made her rush forward so fast you’d miss her if you blinked. Arngeir had given her the take of retrieving the horn of Jurgen Windcaller from it’s resting place. The tomb was just outside of Morthal, which meant a long trip.

They bid their goodbyes to the old hermits and left High Hrothgar. Back in Ivarstead, the man who asked them to go on the supply run gave the women his thanks, with 500 gold. How did they spent their money after that long hike? They booked a room at the local inn.

 “Now what?” Lydia asked as Sansrya settled into their rented out room.

 “Now,” Sansrya began, drawing her steel greatsword out and resting it on her lap. “We rest up. Morthal is a long way from Ivarstead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter but I wanted to post something on this story - it's been a while.


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